The Girl Out the Window
by WritersOfTheRain
Summary: What is it like to fall in love with a vampire? Bella already attracted guys left and right as a human, now that she's a vampire...she is going to be an obsession. This gritty original story explores the attraction of a far more menacing Bella through the eyes of all who are tortured by her presence. Characters are original, but inspired by Twilight.
1. Chapter 1

I'm in love with the girl out the window. Everyday she walks by. She doesn't know I'm watching. There's nothing about her that would draw the eye - today, blue denim jeans, a sleeveless top, wedge sandals... No jewelry adorns her, no paint on her nails. She's as plain as can be. Plain and beautiful. Her legs move just right. Her hips sway to the beat of an unheard tune. If she could just see me; if I could just bring myself to walk outside and talk to her.

Three times. Three times she walks by my window every day. This is the third as the office winds down and covert workhorses pack up to go home and be human again. Me? I'm not done until she gets to her car. Those legs swing into the drivers seat with such ease. She likes her music loud. Rock and roll. That's always the end-of-day choice. She doesn't say much from what I can tell. She always walks alone. She always goes home alone.

Maybe one day I'll go home with her.

This morning she seems more confident than usual, her back straight, head high, a small smile playing on her lips. Maybe she got a promotion. She crosses the parking lot, tiptoes judiciously across the grass in her brown heels, and begins her journey down the sidewalk. I wonder where she will go. The desperation that urges me to follow her is disconcerting. I turn back to my computer. Reports. Financial reports. I type. I fill in. I organize, I sort. I note the trends. I format the spreadsheet, highlighting areas of interest. I stop and think.

I look out the window.

She's coming back now. She looks sad. Her shoulders sag like a homeless puppy and her mysterious grin has vaporized. I want to know what happened. I want to run out the door, sweep her into my arms, cover her with hugs and kisses from head to toe. And then walk back in the direction she came to assert my God-given testosterone-Enflamed manhood on whoever took away that smile.

She doesn't know. Doesn't know how much she floors me. I don't understand it myself, really. All I know is that I look forward to three things at work, and three things alone.

Spreadsheets and analytics are not on the list.

I step into a meeting. I'm lost in negotiations, arguments, and orders for a while. I don't know how long. I don't really give a damn. I just want to get back to my window.

I missed her once. I got stuck in a meeting and she made it all the way to - well, wherever she goes - and back to her small office next door before I could get back to my perch. I wanted to cry. Pathetic. She's like a tractor beam. No, she's like bread. No, more: like blood. Yes, blood, that's it. I can feel her in my veins, pulsating through my heart and ripping it to pieces, slowly, bit by bit. I fear her. What if she did look at me; what if she talked to me? It would feel like jumping out of an airplane and being crushed by an enormous boulder at the same time. No. No, I don't want her to see me. I do. But I don't. I just want to watch her. Study her. Memorize her movements.

I steal back to my office for lunch and await my second treat for the day. My sandwich tastes cold and flavorless compared to the fiery movement of my elusive mistress. Green eyes. Brown hair, down to her shoulders. A different purse every day. My wife used to have a different purse every day. That always annoyed me. But not with her. Nothing bothers me with her.

She walks back into my purview like an anvil. The exact same walk with the exact same swagger and the exact same sheepish grin on her face; but it's like my eyes are awakening from decades of blindness. She always goes the same direction: across the parking lot, toe by toe across the rocky median, always seeming to be in the edge of falling but so graceful in tandem, and onto the sidewalk. The same routine upon her return, but more exquisite in reverse. My day is complete with her.

The next day a man follows her. Uh oh. He's watching her; staring from behind her the way I do. Her spell is contagious. He follows her path until they are both out of my sight. I should follow them, I think. I should make sure she's okay. I should try to deter him. But I know all I really want is to follow her myself.

But I won't. I don't want to leave. I want to stay right here. Safe in my dreams. Will he have more courage than I? Perhaps he will catch up to her and find his voice; a voice that invites her to dinner or dancing or maybe even kisses her. I bet her skin is soft and warm to the touch. I bet her hair feels like the magical straw of Rumpelstiltskin, turning to fine flakes of gold when touched with just the right level of tenderness. I bet her lips...

I turn back to my computer. She's not my concern until her face enters my vision yet again. Then I will have my moment to dream.

 **My first short story romance is available on Kindle! Look up "Losing You" by P j Haynie on Amazon. www dot amazon dot com slash gp slash product slash B01663N97K**


	2. Chapter 2

She eventually comes back. Much later than usual. The man is gone. Probably off in the woods crying. She has a dollop of stray ketchup on her mouth. Such an adorable dollop. I should tell her it's there. But I like it. It relaxes comfortably on her cheek having found its new home. A lovely home. It's like our own little secret. I rest my chin in my hands and enjoy the chills and warmth that come with watching her. She disenfranchises me. Badly.

I'm in trouble. I've been watching her too much. My work is suffering. My boss wants to fire me. I have to stay focused. I have to conquer my spreadsheets and reports and updates.

Spreadsheets. Reports. Updates. Hands resting lazily at her waste...

I can't be fired. I have to keep seeing her. I work extra hard. I still watch her. Three times a day, like clockwork. But when she's gone my eyes and my computer fuse once more to live amongst the dead. And there is nothing until I see her again.

Today she is limping. It makes me sad. I can't be sad for long, but I mourn for her as she hobbles by my window. I could make it all better. I really could. Her khaki skirt looks uncomfortable as she painfully works her way across the rocks. Why doesn't she stay in the office? What is so important?

And I'm in my computer.

She comes back with dirt on her face. This is strange.

 _You'll be okay_ , I say to her quietly, _I won't let anything happen to you. I will keep you. You will be mine and we'll walk together forever, just the two of us. Let me hold your hand. Let me touch your lips. I won't kiss them. No. I just want to feel them under my fingers._

My boss wants to talk to me. I snap to attention. I can't let him see the reason for my misbehavior. It's okay, he just wants to know when my reports will be submitted. I'm like a lonely pine tree, facing nothing but an empty forest and pretending I love it. Pretending I need it. Pretending it keeps me alive. But it doesn't.

Only she does.

It must be casual Friday. She is in jeans and a t-shirt. Sneakers on her feet. I picture her toes - the ones I glimpsed when she wore her wedge sandals. Her second toe was longer than her first. It was tantalizing. And now I'm lost in thoughts of her eloquent toe - perhaps an inheritance of royalty. The Queen of England has a second toe longer than the first. I think. It means something special. It explains these feelings inside me. It explains my obsession. She has something special. A special thing that grips me, shakes me, and tears my body into strips of senseless hide, ready for tanning. I will never let her go. I will never stop watching her. She will always be in my protection.

I throw my computer out the window. I smash it with my foot until it has become a welcoming and inviting pile of beach sand, welcoming me in for a rest. She would like this. She could put her toes in it. They would feel good.

That's what I want to do. But instead, I'm typing. I'm typing an email about something stupid to someone I don't care a rats ass about. But I say please and thank you. Because that's what mom always taught me. And it's important that people think you're happy. You don't get fired when people think you're happy. And then you get to watch the girl. The girl that creeps under your skin and scratches the raw bone with the nails on her right hand.

And the harder she scratches the more whole you feel.

She comes back through the parking lot. This time I'm not disciplined. I can't stop thinking about her. I must schedule my time with her. I mustn't get fired.

Her shirt is hanging off her shoulder and I notice a small tear in the fabric. She's spilled ketchup on herself again, this time on her jeans. She seems lost. Bewildered. Hurt. I want to kill someone. I want to find the bastard hiding at the end of her daily sojourn, rip his jaw off and shove it up his ass with my bare hands. Just like in the movies. I could do it. I could protect her. She needs me.

 _I will always be here for you. Always watching._

 **Email me at pjhaynie at yahoo dot com for a free copy of my short story romance,** _ **Losing You**_ **!**


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